


Ursa Minor

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [23]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: A little angst, Adopted Children, Family Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidfic, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Ronan isverysurprised to find Adam in the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon when heshouldbe at work, obviously waiting for him, with an expression that is such a complicated tangle of emotions it could only be calledAdam, for him to then say, “we got matched.”





	Ursa Minor

**Author's Note:**

> Got a request for more Parrish-Lynch Adventures in Parenting fics. So enjoy this speed-written-trying-finish-before-Camp-NaNoWriMo fic about a baby.

It starts with “if”s turned into “when”s. 

Mentions, here or there, of a family in the future, said without much thought as the others’ heart stutters and restarts. Late night “what ifs” only spoken in the safety of the dark become discussions of “when”, as they lounge on the couch after dinner. Plans for the future are shaped by certainty instead of possibility: property with a sprawling yard for adventures and playtime, a job with the benefits of family insurance, a decision to move closer to friends and brothers, an agreement that human life should never be dreamed again. 

Deciding to speak with an adoption agency was just another gradual move towards the inevitable “when”. 

“I was looking at adoption procedures today,” Ronan tosses out as they lay on the couch after dinner. 

“Huh. Anything interesting?” Adam says. 

“No. Just a lot of fucking paperwork.”

“Guess we should get started on that, then.” 

Adam smiles at him, Ronan kisses him hard, Adam pulls him into the bedroom, and they do not start the paperwork that night. 

###

It’s a _lot_ of fucking paperwork. And waiting. More paperwork, more waiting. Meetings with agencies and caseworkers, scheduling home studies, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. 

They’re told to review the list of children currently up for adoption. There’s so many, and Ronan can see a particular kind of pain in Adam’s expression; the same sort he saw long ago when they tried to return Opal to Cabeswater. He wants to help them all. Ronan squeezes his hand, and loves him more for it. 

They find a little girl. 6 months old. Removed from a neglectful home. They request more information from their caseworker, who provides what they can at this stage in the process. The details are unpleasant and difficult. Ronan reads three sentences and storms off. He channels his anger into productivity by aggressively painting the nursery’s walls periwinkle. 

Adam studies the information with practiced apathy, only to spend the rest of the day in sullen silence with a faraway look and wrinkles knit tightly between his brows. 

Ronan holds him closely that night, and refuses to let him go. 

The next day, when the tides of Ronan’s righteous fury have pulled back out to sea, and when Adam’s gaze is no longer shuttered, they agree that she’s the one. Their caseworker explains that babies are often in high demand, and there’s a good chance they will be one of many families hoping to adopt her. That there’s a _very_ real chance they will not be matched with her for that reason. 

So Ronan is _very_ surprised to find Adam in the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon when he _should_ be at work, obviously waiting for him, with an expression that is such a complicated tangle of emotions it could only be called _Adam_ , for him to then say, “we got matched.” 

“I’m sorry. What?” Ronan says, because he doesn’t believe it. Because he is terribly afraid that they aren’t thinking about the same thing, that Adam will clarify that, no, it hadn’t been the adoption people, but someone else; that they got matched with a new house or a new dog, or a new fucking credit card or anything that isn’t the biggest decisions they have ever made.

“They called me at work. We got matched. For adoption. We got matched with the little girl and we’re adopting her and we’re going to be parents,” Adam says, because if he speaks it aloud it can’t be a dream. 

Ronan is--Ronan is surprised, mindblown, astonished, smacked in the face by a line drive to third, struck so fucking dumb his brain shorted out _, completely beside himself_ , as Gansey might say. 

“Holy motherfucking shit,” Ronan whispers. 

And Adam starts to laugh. A bubble bursting, breaking the spell, and suddenly it’s all too much. 

Ronan rushes forward, grabs him by the waist, and hugs him and kisses him like it’s their wedding day all over again. Ronan is crying. They’re _both_ crying. Crying and laughing because _holy shit they’re going to have a kid._

They lay in bed at 3 in the afternoon, tangled in one another, flushed and glowing and smiling like fucking idiots. 

“You’re going to be the greatest dad I’ve ever seen,” Ronan whispers against Adam’s forehead. 

“She’s going to love you like you’re the center of her entire universe,” Adam hums against Ronan’s heart. 

They need to tell Declan, and Matthew, and Blue-Gansey-Cheng, and pick fucking _godparents_ Jesus F. _Christ_ and they need to finish painting one of the extra rooms and they need to fucking... _buy_ baby supplies, _holy hell,_ and are you supposed to have a baby shower when you adopt a kid? Who plans that shit? 

Instead of doing any of that, Adam tells Ronan and Ronan tells Adam how much he loves him with words and touch, over and over and over again, until long after the sun has set behind the Blue Ridge mountains. 

  


######

  


They have to wait some more, in order to be officially matched with her. It’s more paperwork and more meetings with their caseworker, where they say again and again that, _yes_ she is the one. Finally, they set a date for meeting her. 

Ronan’s a man on a mission: “to make this nursery the best fucking nursery on the whole damn planet.” He dreams up paint that sparkles and flickers like the stars in the sky, and maps a ceiling full of constellations for their baby girl. He scours the internet for the best furniture, the best toys, the best decor, the best _anything_ for babies. Declan offers to bring them furniture that his daughter has since outgrown, and Ronan tells him, “that fucking crib has a 3.5 star review, and you want _me_ to use it? Are you out of your _fucking_ mind?” at which point Adam takes the phone from him to thank Declan for the _very considerate_ offer that they will _most definitely accept_ , “like any sensible adult _who’s about to be a father_ should do, you asshole.”

Adam reads parenting books, and forums online about parenting, and talks to his therapist about becoming a parent, and asks all his coworkers for their advice, until he’s so inundated with information that he isn’t sure what’s best or right anymore. Which, when you’re Adam Parrish, is possibly the worst thing that could happen. 

It all comes out the night before they’re meant to visit her. Ronan, fighting off insomnia by splattering paint across the ceiling in a portrait of the Milky Way, hears Adam quietly descend the stairs and exit the house. He’s sitting on the porch, knees drawn to his chest and elbows crossed overtop, staring out over the acreage of their home as fireflies dance through the grass. 

Ronan brings him a glass of water and sits beside him. The crickets and the bullfrogs chatter away in the night. 

“What if…” Adam begins, and he doesn’t need to finish the thought. They’ve had this discussion since the “ifs” turned into “whens”. Insecurity birthed from the deepest, darkest corners of Adam’s memories of a father who was more monster than man. A fear, ice-cold and relentless, that somehow he has monster blood in him, too. 

“What if I’m a terrible dad?” he asks for what is maybe the four hundredth time, as soft and ashamed as he always sounds. It hurts Ronan’s heart like a punch to the chest. 

“You won’t be.” 

“I could be.”

“Sure, it’s in the realm of fucking _possibility_. But it’s not gonna happen.”

“But what if I _am_?”

“Then I’ll fucking divorce you, dumbass.”

Ronan can see Adam’s mind still restlessly turning, so he waits. Waits for Adam to say whatever thoughts coalesce in his beautiful, overthinking brain; waits for Adam to, however inadvertently, tell Ronan what he needs. 

“I’m terrified,” Adam says at last. And Ronan snorts a little and says, “same.” 

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“She’ll probably like you more than she’ll like me,” Ronan says. “I don’t exactly look ‘baby friendly.’”

“I think the nurses will be more concerned than she’ll be.”

“I was planning on wearing my spikiest fucking jacket, too. Should I rethink that?”

That gets a little bit of a smile out of Adam, which Ronan always counts as a win.

“I know it’s hard, and scary as fuck,” Ronan says, running a gentle hand up and down his spine. “Shit, I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, either. But--” he turns Adam’s head with a touch to his cheek, so he can see him properly. “I’ve watched you with Matty, and with Opal, and with Declan’s kid, and with Blue’s cousins. You’re kind, and gentle, and more fucking patient then I’ll ever be. And that, plus, like, twenty million other reasons, means you are _not_ your father.” 

“I could still be, though. We don’t know,” Adam whispers. 

“ _I_ know. I know you are a billion times better of a man than he ever was. You’ve shown me, every fucking day, for the past--how long? Ten? Eleven?--for the past motherfucking _decade plus_ how incredible you are. You’re a fucking _miracle,_ and you are _nothing_ like that shitting asshole you were forced to live with for the first seventeen years of your life, okay?”

A ragged exhale, and then Adam sags against Ronan’s side. “Okay,” he says. 

“When you hold her, Parrish, I promise you, you’ll know that you’re meant to be her father. Just wait until you hold her.”

“Okay.” 

  


####

The meeting is, thankfully, first thing in the morning, because both of them are on the brink of turning destructive with how much nervous energy is flickering beneath their skin. Ronan is quickly running out of things to paint. Adam is running out of fingernails to chew. 

They’re in the car on the way to the caseworker’s office. Behind the wheel of the BMW, Ronan feels fine. Calm, almost. Adam’s mouth is drawn into a tight line, his fingers itching at his jeans and running nervously through his hair. 

He doesn’t need to say what he’s thinking. Ronan takes his hand off the gear shift and grabs Adam’s and kisses his knuckles and says, once more, “Just wait until you hold her. And then you’ll know.”

Adam releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

  


####

  


Her name is Maeve. She’s squirmy, and noisy, and likes to grab at anything that’s shiny. 

Ronan has never loved anything more in his entire life. 

Adam can see it, in the way his blue eyes melt as she’s placed in his arms. Every hard edge of Ronan Lynch smooths until he’s nothing but gentle, careful love for the little human happily jabbering and grabbing for his nose. He’s seen it before, when he’s held baby animals, or when Matthew tells him he loves him, or when Opal brings him shiny rocks. But it’s only ever part of him. There’s still a sharpness to his brow, or a wicked curve to his mouth. This, though--

This is complete. Not a single angle left unsanded, his entire being made soft by this tiny little girl. 

Adam swallows. It’s overwhelming. _Ronan_ is overwhelming. His throat is thick and his eyes prickle and he needs to look away because watching his husband melt _entirely_ over the girl that will be their _daughter_ is like looking into the sun. 

And then it’s his turn. 

Ronan turns to him, and offers her. He accepts. She stares at him with her big, brown eyes, and Adam feels like his soul is being weighed.

“Hello, Maeve,” he says softly, and she giggles. 

She’s _so small._ Not abnormally. Not unhealthily. “All things considered, she’s progressing exceptionally well,” the caseworker explains. “Hitting all the milestones on her chart after just a few weeks of proper nutrition and care.” 

But she’s--she’s just a _baby._ A tiny little human that can’t do anything except babble and smile and clumsily grab for a wayward sparkle on Adam’s cheek, and yet is still alive. She exists, she _survived,_ despite the shit of her earliest months alive. And she seems...fine. Completely unperturbed by it all. Doesn't even seem to care that it’s two strange men holding her. 

“She hasn’t been this calm for anyone else, I’ll tell you that much,” the caseworker says with a laugh. “Guess you got her at a good time.”

Or maybe she just knows. Knows that it’s not two strange men, but her fathers. The men who will play with her and jabber with her and hold her when she cries and get her bottles in the middle of the night. Who will stay up all night when she’s sick, who will get sick themselves trying to care for her and not give a single shit about it. Who will wait with her in the ER when her arm breaks falling out of a tree, who will cheer for her at soccer matches and film her oboe recitals. Who will walk with her into her first day of preschool, kindergarten, grade school, middle school, high school, who will _take her to college_ if she wants to go. 

And in an instant, Adam’s entire world unravels and wraps itself around this little girl. She’s the center of it all, and she will always be. 

“She’s amazing,” Adam says. She presses a hand to his cheek, and he realizes he’s crying. She looks at her wet palm, and then laughs and squirms a bunch and laughs some more. 

Ronan clears some of the tears from his cheek with his thumb. “I told you,” he says, and Adam can see he’s about to cry, too. 

“She doesn’t have a middle name yet,” the caseworker notes. “If you’d like, you can register one.” 

Adam looks at Ronan. They’ve talked about this, so Adam shouldn’t need to give him permission. Still, it feels important that Adam agree, one last time. He nods. 

Ronan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Aurora,” he tells the caseworker. “Maeve Aurora.”


End file.
